


perhaps spring will come to me

by youtiao



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Ambiguity, M/M, Reincarnation, Sort of? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youtiao/pseuds/youtiao
Summary: For as long as Jongdae remembers, every time it rains, a man has appeared on the mountain.
Relationships: Kim Jongdae | Chen/Kim Junmyeon | Suho
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28





	perhaps spring will come to me

**Author's Note:**

> title is from chen - flower  
> written for [louise](https://twitter.com/exolutiion) (one of her wips inspired this lolol i totally went off track from what u were imaginign for that art, but anyway!)

For as long as Jongdae remembers, every time it rains, a man has appeared on the mountain. 

“Mama, look,” he says, pointing at the man in sea-blue silk robes, standing by the shrine, “that man is dressed funny.” 

It’s not much of a mountain. More like... a little hill. Jongdae’s had his fun dashing to the top to roll down, head over butt, wobbling around dizzily afterward. At the top, there’s an old shrine, a crumbling old thing, but he can’t remember caring much for it. 

“Don’t stare, Jongdae,” his mother says, hurrying through the park, not even sparing a glance. 

The rain had come suddenly, a sunny blue sky turning stormy grey in a matter of minutes. He remembers, because he’d been roasting ants with a shard of glass, when the sun suddenly disappeared. The man had come suddenly, and if Jongdae didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought the man simply materialised as soon as the skies opened up. 

Jongdae cranes his neck, but the silk-wearing man standing by the shrine is gone. 

The man has an umbrella, but it’s old-looking. It looks to be made out of paper. Jongdae never sees him use it, though he wonders how well a paper umbrella would hold up in rain. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone. He just stares at the rainy sky, though when Jongdae mimics him, raindrops fall into his eyes. 

“Kid, what are you doing out here? Get home!” a passerby says. 

He should. His shirt is soaked through with rainwater. Though he continues to stand there, continues to watch the strange man by the shrine. 

Is he even a man? 

The strange deity by the shrine. The deity does not speak, does not acknowledge anyone. Jongdae thinks he sees his lips move, but whatever’s been said or not said is lost to the pitter-patter of the rain. 

“Jongdae! Jongdae! Jongdae, where are you?” His brother’s voice. Jongdae blinks, and his eyelashes are heavy with raindrops. “Daedae, gosh, what are you doing all alone out here?” 

Alone? He turns to look at the deity, standing by the shrine, hands pressed together in front of his chest. The umbrella, propped up by his hip. His brother looks, too, but his gaze drifts past the deity. _Through_ the deity, to be more exact. 

Other people cannot see the deity. 

“I’m cold,” Jongdae says, suddenly feeling the chill in his bones. “Let’s go home.” 

“Who are you?” Jongdae asks. The deity turns, stares at him for a long time, then rubs his eyes with a sigh. He then turns back to his skyward gazing. Jongdae frowns, reaches out to touch the deity’s turquoise sleeve. “Hey. Um, mister deity. I’m talking to you.” 

“Huh?” the deity says, his voice like the drip of dew off a leaf, like the swish of the wind during a storm. He blinks, raindrops suspended on long lashes. “You can see me?” 

Jongdae nods. 

“...” 

He leans against the stone base of the shrine, resting his hands on his knees. So the deity is not great at conversation. But Jongdae is great at conversation. “Mister deity, what’s your name?” 

The deity turns back to the shrine. There’s a plaque, rubbed away by Time’s thoughtless fingers. Jongdae kneels, and squints at the characters carved into the old stone. “Chen, the God of the Storms. ‘ _May he bring the nourishing rains._ ’ Your name is Chen?” 

“No,” the deity says. “I do not have a name.” 

“You can’t _not_ have a name,” Jongdae says, aghast. 

“My lord who bestowed upon me my name is long gone. Nobody in this world knows me. Why do I need a name, if there is no one to call it?” 

The deity’s voice is still even, neutral. The pitter-patter of the rain is even, neutral. But for some reason, Jongdae feels so, so sad. “I’ll call your name,” he says softly. “What did your lord call you?” 

The deity is quiet for a long, long time. “I don’t remember.” 

“Can I give you a name, then?” 

The deity does not respond. Then, a small nod. Jongdae smiles, even though he’s being pelted with freezing rain. “Then. I’ll call you Suho.” 

In one of Jongdae’s favourite childhood stories, one his mother would tell him, there was a worshipper named Suho. He worshipped the Rain God. Every day, he would tend to the temple of his god, pray to his god, love his god wholly and fully. And one day, his god descended from a rain cloud, and made him his lover for eternity. 

He turns to Suho, but the deity’s face is unreadable. 

“You stick out a lot in that,” Jongdae says. 

Suho barely turns his head. “You are the only one who can see me, my lord.” 

“Well, I guess,” Jongdae hums, leaning against a tree and tucking his thumbs into his jean loops. He’s mostly shielded from the downpour beneath the leafage, so he closes his umbrella, but the movement of the tree as he leans sends all the rain balanced on wide leaves down on his head. Oh, well. “My name is Jongdae, not ‘my lord’.” 

“Sure,” Suho says. 

In spite of the less-than-lukewarm response to his offering of clothes, he returns the next day with Jongdeok’s old ones, a grey cashmere sweater, pressed black slacks. And a blue scarf the same shade as Suho’s robes, one that he’d seen in a shop window as he passed, and couldn’t help but think of Suho. 

He holds them up to the deity with a sheepish smile. 

Suho sighs. He steps behind the shrine with the folded clothes, and when he reemerges, Jongdae’s breath catches in his throat. He looks... 

“Are you happy now, my lord?” Suho asks. 

Jongdae takes the scarf and loops it messily around his deity’s neck and shoulders. “Very happy,” he says, with a little smile. He steps back, admires his handiwork. “You look nice in blue.” 

Suho stares. The rain continues, slowly darkening the pale grey sweater, streaming down Suho’s face. “Thank you, my lord,” Suho murmurs, eyes distant. Maybe a bit wet, but Jongdae can’t tell in this rain. 

“Why don’t you use your umbrella?” Jongdae asks, gesturing at the paper umbrella at Suho’s hip. He’s gotten rather used to the pervasive _wetness_ of Suho, considering he only appears whenever it’s raining. Suho doesn’t even attempt to stay out of the rain, to move his worship to the cover of the trees _right behind the shrine_. 

Jongdae might have a strange habit of going out whenever it starts raining, but at least he brings an umbrella. He’s no longer a kid who enjoys getting soaked. 

Suho just blinks at him. He does a lot of that. “This was a gift from my lord. And besides, it’s a sun-umbrella. It would be next to useless in rain.” 

“Oh.” 

Right on cue, the rain peters to a stop. 

“You can have my umbrella, then,” Jongdae says, putting his new, fancy-schmancy transparent umbrella at the foot of the shrine. He takes off his black jacket, drapes it over Suho’s shoulders. “It must suck being soaked all the time.” 

It is _storming_ the next time Jongdae returns to the shrine. The spokes of his umbrella folded out when he had attempted to open it, so he left the mangled thing by the door and ventured out without. He’s not sure why. Any sane person would stay inside, and his neighbour blinks at him in mild horror as she watches Jongdae dash down the street. 

He can’t explain it. Something... calls to him. 

Suho is by the shrine, as he always is. He looks smaller than he usually does, clothes whipping around him in the wind. He’s kneeling, hands pressed together. 

He’s _crying_. 

“Suho!” he calls. “Suho! Suho,” he says, touching the deity’s shoulder, “what’s wrong?” 

“Don’t call me that,” the deity hisses, and his voice is like the drumming of thunder, the shift of a river’s banks breaking. “You don’t know who I am. You don’t even remember me!” His eyes crackle, furious. 

He tastes it in the air before it happens. Like static between his teeth. A bolt of lightning cleaves the shrine in half, wrecks the fading, crumbling statue of Chen. Suho’s eyes are wide, crazed, like the boiling storm above them. 

Jongdae realises, too late, the deity’s eyes reflect the sky. 

And then, he passes out. 

☂

For as long as Chen remembers, every time it rains, a boy has appeared at his shrine. 

It’s a small, old, abandoned shrine. The village built a newer, grander one, after a particular devastating dry season. To ensure he would never abandon them again. Someone put it into the foolish mortals’ heads that it is bad luck to destroy a shrine, so they left it, untended to, lonely on the mountain. 

“What are you looking at?” Baekhyun asks, nosy as ever. “Has another one of those wretched humans caught your eye?” 

The boy kneels at the steps even as rain batters down on him, even as the trees twist in the wind, even as thunder and lightning crack across the sky. He looks so small, so defenseless, so pure. 

Chen descends for a better look. 

One day, while the orphan boy prays to his god Chen, the air shifts. Minutely. He tips his head up, but the rain makes everything blurry and soft around the edges. He shivers, uncontrollable when the rain is so cold. 

And then he sees _him_. Floating above the shrine. He’s the most beautiful person the orphan boy has ever seen, sharp cheekbones, eyes flashing like lightning behind heavy cloud. His hair is long, writhing in the stormy wind. He looks like any other beautiful man, only... the orphan boy knows, immediately, upon laying his eyes on the god, that this is _his_ god. 

“Chen,” he breathes. 

There’s a flash of lightning. When his vision clears, his god is gone. 

He wishes, oh, he wishes, his god would return. He even steals a few rolls, tucks them into his clothes, to bring up to his god. His god does not appear, and he takes a particularly terrible beating for the stolen rolls, his injuries making it rather difficult to go up the mountain. 

He drags himself up to the shrine. It’s far past sun-set when he does, but he does his prayers in the dark. 

Chen does not show his face again, until, 

He’s waiting for the boy the next day. Kneeling beside his statue, frowning at the terrible depiction of himself. He is _not_ an old man. Or, well, he definitely does not prefer to appear as an old man. He should strike down the artist responsible for this. 

“My lord!” comes the gasp, and the boy slams to his knees. “You’ve returned,” whispered. 

“Yes, I have,” he says, perching on his shrine, arms crossed, legs crossed. The boy does not look up, forehead pressed to the dirt. Irritated, he snaps. “Look at your god when he is speaking to you.” 

Slowly, the boy looks up, but still avoids Chen’s eyes. “I said _look_ at me.” He drifts down to the boy, cups his cheek. His skin goes white where Chen grips his face. He is even lovelier, up close, if possible, though there’s a smudge of mud on his brow. Chen cleans it off. 

The boy quivers. 

“Do you fear me?” Chen asks. _Of course he does, the boy’s shaking like a leaf_ , Baekhyun snarks. He snarls, kicks the nosy god out of his head. The boy is _his_ , and his alone. 

“Yes,” the boy says. “You are a god, and I am a weak mortal. I am not worthy.”

Wow. He’s honest. “You are so interesting,” Chen muses to himself. “You’re plenty worthy, boy. Don’t ever say that to me again, or I will consider it an insult to my taste. Is that clear?” 

“Y-yes, my lord.” 

“I will return here tomorrow. I trust you’ll be here, yes?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. In a flash of lightning, he vanishes. 

“What is your name?” Chen asks, chewing on the fried dough the boy brought. He kisses his scalded fingers. The boy kneels before him, holding up the plate. 

“I do not have a name,” the boy says. Chen takes the plate, puts it on the stone base of the shrine, and pats his other side. Sit, the invitation. The boy stutters, but clambers to his feet, and sits. He knows better than to upset his god. 

“How can you _not_ have a name?” Chen asks, incredulous. 

“I am an orphan,” the boy says, as easily as he says everything else. 

Chen is momentarily angered by how easily the boy accepts things. “Then I shall give you a name,” he declares, tossing the last twist of sweetened dough into his mouth. “From now on, you’ll be called Suho. The _guardian_ of my shrine.” 

They say Chen sits in the trees overhanging his shrines. He likes to look at his followers, they say. 

_One follower_ , he corrects, crouching down in the tree branches overhanging his shrine. He gets comfy, settling his white linens around him, playing with the silver rings on his fingers, as he waits. Punctual as ever, Suho comes trotting up the path, two peaches in his hands. 

“My lord,” he says, eyes bright. He kneels, ducks his head, and holds the peaches up for inspection. 

They’re perfect, as always. Every single one of the gifts the boy brings for him is utterly perfect. As they say, faithful follower is far more priceless than housefuls of riches. The other gods sigh, express their jealousy, attempt to win Suho over to their sides. Internally, Chen preens. 

“Don’t you have... anywhere else to be, my lord?” Suho dares to say, cupping the uneaten peach in his hands. Chen flicks his eyes toward him, and it shuts him up. 

“Do you dislike spending time with me?” Chen says, smudging juice-slick fingers over his Suho’s lips. They’re soft, yielding. The boy parts his lips a little before realising what he’s doing. A flush steals over his cheeks. 

“Come. Eat. Do you need me to feed you?” he says, though the corner of his mouth twitches up at the memory—of slipping a slice of mandarin into the boy’s mouth with his tongue. He can pinpoint the moment the boy remembers too, because his face goes even redder than before. 

Chen laughs, sweet, lovely like a spring rain. 

They say the orphan boy has become the newest jewel in the storm god’s collection. 

No way, they say. How can _he_ get the attention of _Chen_? they scoff. Must be some joke, they laugh. Not when he’s dressed like _that_. 

Chen sends a storm, thundering and shaking. He strikes at their feet with bolts of lightning. He seethes, not being allowed to do more, to send them to Hell for their insults against _his_ Suho. 

“You can’t wear that,” Chen says, the next time Suho visits his shrine. Suho wears the same thing every day, a plain tunic, well-cared-for, but _old_. For the first time in a long time, Suho looks ashamed, kneeling, hiding his face in his arms. “Oh, get up,” Chen frowns. “You’re mine now, and I won’t have you dirtying my things.” 

Unwilling to disobey his god, Suho stands. 

Chen snaps his fingers. The tunic is replaced with floaty blue silks. Silver bands encircle Suho’s wrists, biceps, ankles. He plucks a pair of sandals out of nothing, and kneels before _his_ shrine guardian. Automatic, Suho kneels as well, but Chen tsks. “Stand up. I need to put these on you.” 

“A god should not kneel before his follower,” he worries, trying to take the sandals from his god’s hands. “I—I can put them on myself, my lord.” 

Chen raises an eyebrow. Tentative, Suho straightens. “This is not right,” he frets, wringing his hands as Chen lifts his feet, rubs his fingers over the arch, and slides on the sandals. 

Chen, obviously, ignores him. “You look lovely in blue.” He smiles, tipping Suho’s chin up so he can see his face. Aw, he’s _pouting_. Suho holds his gaze now. “Are you going to thank me, my lovely Suho?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Suho murmurs. 

“Suho,” he says, between kisses. “My lovely Suho.” Beneath his hands, his most devoted worshipper, his most faithful follower, writhes. “You are beautiful.” Suho makes the loveliest expressions, twisted in sensitivity as Chen explores his lovely, lovely body. 

“My lord,” Suho gasps, squirming as if he wants away from his god’s touch, but arching into it at the same time. “My lord, I.” 

He mouths at Suho’s fingers. “Call me Chen,” he demands. 

Suho’s eyes fly open. “I—I cannot, m-my l—” At Chen’s scalding glare, he lowers his eyes. ”Yes, Chen.” 

Pleased, Chen snakes down his body, slender and soft, but muscled from walking all the way to his shrine, every day. Little blemishes, cuts, burns that never healed quite well, all of it is beautiful. He says this, divesting Suho of his plain robes. Oh, he makes such plain, coarse linens look so lovely, Chen cannot imagine how he must look in the softest silks, the shiniest jewels. Beneath his hands, Suho trembles, like the leaves of trees before a storm. 

“May I have you, my Suho?” Chen asks, soft. He’s never soft. He’s the god of storms. “Wholly, and fully? Will you give yourself to me?” 

Suho squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Yes, Chen.” 

They say the orphan boy has a pet god. 

It’s _Chen_ , they gasp, as the orphan boy, no, _Suho_ , dressed in richer clothes than the village head, walks down the mountain from the old shrine. Beside him, the most beautiful man they’ve ever seen. They get the distinct feeling they should prostrate themselves, and prostrate themselves they do. 

“How do you feel, my lovely Suho?” Chen asks, taking Suho’s hand. 

Suho beams. They are uncaring of the people dropping to their knees at the sight of them, at the sight of _Chen_ and his dearest, most adored. “I feel... hot.” At once, a lovely wave-patterned parasol appears in Chen’s hand. He insists on holding it. 

And who is Suho to deny his god of what he wants? 

☂

 _The storm has stopped_ , is his first coherent thought as he comes to. 

Jongdae gasps, spitting out water. He coughs out another lungful, soaking his front again. Above him, Suho is shaking him, tears streaming down his face. “Chen,” he’s sobbing, “please wake up. Please. I’m so sorry! Please don’t leave me again.” 

“Suho,” he murmurs, gently gripping the deity’s hand, “I’m fine. See? I’m right here. I’m right here,” he soothes, rubbing his fingers over Suho’s knuckles. 

Eventually, the deity calms down, and they sit down on the stone base of Chen’s shrine. _His_ shrine. A sense of déjà vu sweeps over him. Right. They’d sat right here, like this, thousands of years before, and shared fried dough and fruit. 

That’s strange to think about. “I’m Chen, right?” he asks softly. 

Suho nods. “You look just like him. I thought...” He shakes his head, face twisting painfully. He touches the parasol by his hip, the last gift Chen—Jongdae—god, his head hurts—gave him. He then touches the scarf. “It’s been so _difficult_. So lonely. For the past thousand years.” 

“But I’m back now,” Jongdae murmurs. 

“You are.” Suho gazes into his eyes, and somewhere in Jongdae’s chest, he feels _right_. He _knows_ this is right. “Welcome back, my lord.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for readin (*¯ ³¯*)♡  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/02sheep)


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